Nature and Human Nature

by Thomas Chandler Haliburton

“Exactly,” sais I, “for he is then below the canine species—‘dog won’t eat dog.’¹ The wrecker lives not on those who die, but on those whom he slays. The pirate has courage at least to boast of, he risks his life to rob the ship, but the other attacks the helpless and unarmed, and spares neither age nor sex in his thirst for plunder. I don’t mean to say we are worse on this side of the Atlantic than the other, God forbid. I believe we are better, for the American people are a kind, a feeling, and a humane race. But avarice hardens the heart, and distress, when it comes in a mass, overpowers pity for the individual, while inability to aid a multitude induces a carelessness to assist any. A whole community will rush to the rescue of a drowning man, not because his purse can enrich them all (that is too dark a view of human nature), but because he is the sole object of interest. When there are hundreds struggling for life, few of whom can be saved, and when some wretches are solely bent on booty, the rest, regardless of duty, rush in for their share also, and the ship and her cargo attract all. When the wreck is plundered, the transition to rifling the dying and the dead is not difficult, and cupidity, when once sharpened by success, brooks no resistance, for the remonstrance of conscience is easily silenced where supplication is not even heard. Avarice benumbs the feelings, and when the heart is hardened, man becomes a mere beast of prey. Oh this scene afflicts me—let us move on. These poor people have never yet been suspected of such atrocities, and surely they were not perpetrated in the world before the Flood.”

¹ This homely adage is far more expressive than the Latin one:—

“Parcit
Cognates maculis, similis fera.”—Juv.

[CHAPTER XVII.]
LOST AT SEA.

“I believe, Doctor,” sais I, “we have seen all that is worth notice here, let us go into one of their houses and ascertain if there is anything for Sorrow’s larder; but, Doctor,” sais I, “let us first find out if they speak English, for if they do we must be careful what we say before them. Very few of the old people I guess know anything but French, but the younger ones who frequent the Halifax market know more than they pretend to if they are like some other habitans I saw at New Orleans. They are as cunning as foxes.”

Proceeding to one of the largest cottages, we immediately gained admission. The door, unlike those of Nova Scotian houses, opened outwards, the fastening being a simple wooden latch. The room into which we entered was a large, dark, dingy, dirty apartment. In the centre of it was a tub containing some goslins, resembling yellow balls of corn-meal, rather than birds. Two females were all that were at home, one a little wrinkled woman, whose age it would puzzle a physiognomist to pronounce on, the other a girl about twenty-five years old. They sat on opposite sides of the fire-place, and both were clothed alike, in blue striped homespun, as previously described.

“Look at their moccasins,” said the doctor. “They know much more about deer-skins than half the English settlers do. Do you observe, they are made of carriboo, and not moose hide. The former contracts with wet and the other distends and gets out of shape. Simple as that little thing is, few people have ever noticed it.”

The girl, had she been differently trained and dressed, would have been handsome, but spare diet, exposure to the sun and wind, and field-labour, had bronzed her face, so that it was difficult to say what her real complexion was. Her hair was jet black and very luxuriant, but the handkerchief which served for bonnet and head-dress by day, and for a cap by night, hid all but the ample folds in front. Her teeth were as white as ivory, and contrasted strangely with the gipsy colour of her cheeks. Her eyes were black, soft, and liquid, and the lashes remarkably long, but the expression of her face, which was naturally good, indicated, though not very accurately, the absence of either thought or curiosity.

After a while objects became more distinct in the room, as we gradually became accustomed to the dim light of the small windows. The walls were hung round with large hanks of yarn, principally blue and white. An open cupboard displayed some plain coarse cups and saucers, and the furniture consisted of two rough tables, a large bunk,¹ one or two sea-chests, and a few chairs of simple workmanship. A large old-fashioned spinning-wheel and a barrel-churn stood in one corner, and in the other a shoemaker’s bench, while carpenter’s tools were suspended on nails in such places as were not occupied by yarn. There was no ceiling or plastering visible anywhere, the floor of the attic alone separated that portion of the house from the lower room, and the joice on which it was laid were thus exposed to view, and supported on wooden cleets, leather, oars, rudders, together with some half-dressed pieces of ash, snow-shoes, and such other things as necessity might require. The wood-work, wherever visible, was begrimed with smoke, and the floor, though doubtless sometimes swept, appeared as if it had the hydrophobia hidden in its cracks, so carefully were soap and water kept from it. Hams and bacon were nowhere visible. It is probable, if they had any, they were kept elsewhere, but still more probable that they had found their way to market, and been transmuted into money, for these people are remarkably frugal and abstemious, and there can be no doubt, the doctor says, that there is not a house in the settlement in which there is not a supply of ready money, though the appearance of the buildings and their inmates would by no means justify a stranger in supposing so. They are neither poor nor destitute, but far better off than those who live more comfortably and inhabit better houses.

¹ Bunk is a word in common use, and means a box that makes a seat by day and serves for a bedstead by night.